See what the oldsters in the back row have to say

Published October 23. 2014 4:00AM

Publication: The Times

I first noticed it at my nieces 25th birthday party. I even made a comment to my sister-in-law sitting next to me. And then again about a month later while attending a wedding shower for the daughter of a longtime friend, I noticed it again. There I was, sitting in the back row of the group, not among the young or even middle-aged, but in the mezzanine of matriarchs. Let's be clear, this was not assigned seating, I chose my place among the oldsters.

It's hard when the reality of time thumps you on the head with the reminder that you have become a member of a group that well-mannered youngsters give up their seats for. I wasn't the oldest in attendance at the party, that was a sweet lady up front so she could see and hear what was going on.

A few weeks ago on the local news, the anchor mentioned that an elderly (one year younger than me) woman was in an accident and passed away. My condolences to the family but what age constitutes elderly? I'm not middle-aged, the oldest person on earth has not lived to what that would make me, so what am I? A whisker away from full retirement, am I post middle-age, pre-elderly or almost-olderly?

Hey, all you up front youngsters, if you were wondering, (and I know you were not), what the women in the back, who politely drank punch and ordered decaf with cake were talking about, let me tell you.

While you were celebrating by saving ribbons and slicing the half-sheet covered in butter-cream frosting, we were talking about you. About what a joy you were when you were little, about whether you gave your parents gray hair, or about how smart, beautiful and noble you have become. And it's not just you we were discussing.

At family events we look lovingly at all the kids who have grown up, some having kids of their own. When they were little, who knew which hellions would turn out to be cops, farmers, teachers or doctors or which perfect child would drop out, for a life of dead-end jobs, while continuing to live in the childhood bedroom they refuse to leave.

Some of the athletic ones have become couch potatoes. The ones once most in need of a make-over, because of video games and soda with sugar, have become health nuts. One kid, I am most in awe of, went from being a substance-abuse horror show, every parent has nightmares about, to graduating college, being married with children and living a squeaky clean life while pulling down a job with a six figure salary.

Of course when examining the outcomes of the younger set it is with trepidation we examine and put into perspective, our own humble beginnings - for about 30 seconds. Looking back at my own indiscretions does nothing but feed the regret of, if I knew then what I know now, I would have had a heck of a lot more fun then.

I like being a member of the experienced set because that means I can enjoy myself and not worry about all the stuff young people have to worry about these days like, global warming, student loans, apps and whether my iPhone is charged. All I have to worry about is whether I can figure out how to program my GPS so I can find my way back home. I'll take another slice of cake and another cup of coffee, decaf please. Enough said.

Smallest plants produce the sweetest fruit

Though blurry, he was perfect

Way back in the beginning of the summer my daughter and her husband gave us two tomato plants. They started the little guys from seeds, and mixed up the labels on the flats, so though green and healthy, beefsteak, plum or cherry, we weren't sure what kind of tomato plants they were.

We decided to plant our garden of two in a couple of five gallon buckets on our deck. I watered, gave them names, (Tom and Tommy), snipped the suckers and waited. Tom did well but Tommy was having issues.
My daughter and son-in-law are organic gardeners so I figured perhaps Tommy was in need of something a bit more robust beyond the natural fertilizer provided by their friend's cows. My daughter was disappointed that I went to the dark side of fertilizing, I used a product produced in a lab instead of on a farm. It worked for Tom, his branches filled out and little yellow flowers foretold of a harvest. Tommy on the other hand displayed little change.
I became convinced that though his stems were thin, they seemed strong. Tommy was indeed the runt of the litter. We could have delegated the little guy to the compost pile but because I had committed to his care, I was not going to give up on him, yet.

 

Tom began to produce dozens of little green pear shaped marbles. Tommy rallied with one yellow blossom. Every time I looked at the smaller of the two plants my heart went out to him. There was something the poor guy needed which we were not giving him and I was at a loss as to what it was. Both plants were watered at the same time, both were fed the same food, they got the same amount of sun and yet the results were so different. It reminded me of how two children with the same parents can turn out so differently.
Because it was obvious that Tommy was struggling we decided that perhaps what he needed was companionship with the seedlings from his nursery. My daughter and son-in-law planted him and his one yellow bloom next to their other tomato plants in the garden adjacent to the house.
As the summer progressed Tom flourished on the deck. He produced lots of little pear shaped tomatoes that were a delicious delight in our summer salads. The garden outside produced so many different kinds of tomatoes that our little Tommy, tucked into a far corner, just sort of slipped my mind. One afternoon I noticed that his one blossom had become a light green, perfectly round tomato a little bigger than a ping pong ball. I wanted to cheer. His stems were still so slim it was a wonder that they just didn't droop and drop their one and only progeny.
My son-in-law went to the garden to pick the last of the ripe tomatoes. Once he finished, he presented me with Tommy's one and only tomato. It looked so perfect, it didn't look real.
That our poor little runt of a plant could produce something so beautiful kind of took my breath away. I had almost given up on him and yet, he came through. On my windowsill, above the kitchen sink, I placed Tommy's perfect little tomato and took a picture of it. I figured if that plant worked so hard to produce one small tomato then I could at least honor the effort by documenting it. Two days later, with a little sadness and a bit of joy I sliced that tomato. It was the best tasting ever and I mean that. Tommy, you did a great job. Thanks. Enough said.

YOU CAN REACH CAROLYNN PIANTA AT CPIANTA@COMCAST.NET

As much as things change they also remain the same

0

0

At work recently a coworker and I started to reminisce. She is younger than I am so I was surprised when we had so many local memories in common.

 

The saying, "The more things change the more they stay the same," is apt I think. Surroundings may shift but the core of our lives remains the same. And because the seasons reinvent our world four times a year, maybe that's why living with change is a lot of what southern New Englanders are about.

Here in eastern Connecticut, because we balance between two of the East Coast's biggest cities, our urban, suburban and rural identities blend like fog off the Sound dissolves into sunshine. I was born here, moved away, returned and have stayed for almost 46 years. I have watched changes take place that are gradual, jarring and in some instances just plain unexplainable.

As a kid I remember traveling from New Jersey to Connecticut before Interstate 95 was completed. In my 20s, because of my job, I drove from Montville to Hartford before Route 11 was even considered. Every day I sped up Route 85 to Colchester and hopped on Route 2 all the way to capital city to work at the biggest department store in the state, G. Fox & Co. What an awesome store that was.

The New London Shopping Center, when it was an indoor mall with The Outlet Co. at one end and Two Guys at the other, was a big deal for us along the shoreline. I watched the Gold Star Memorial Bridge being built and my kids watched as the Baldwin Bridge over the Connecticut River was constructed.

I remember Mohegan Park before the dam broke. The zoo, the upper lake with the huge metal slide, and men washing and polishing their cars in the shade under the trees by the lower lake. It was a time when this little girl, at 10, could follow the path through the woods alone and swim all day at the lake with a dollar for a hot dog, ice cream and a soda, and walk safely back to my Nana's house on Mohegan Park Road. I'd dress up her little Chihuahua, Chi Chi, and push him in a carriage down Seventh Street to Mr. Big's in Greenville or Franklin's 5 and 10 in Norwich center.

We'd go to the drive-in on Route 32 or the one in Waterford near where Stop & Shop is now. When I was older my cousin and I often went surfing at East Beach and Misquamicut in Westerly. Always Misquamicut for real waves. Are the bumper cars still there?

Salem was just four corners with a gas station and a mom and pop convenience store. Flanders was another four corners enclave with a huge old house where the big drug store is now and the Ford garage where another big drug store is now. It was exciting when New London became pedestrian and then a relief when it was changed back. Mystic without Olde Mistick Village is a memory as is the Thames River and the woods further north, without casinos.

Sometimes the changes are gradual and sometimes they are jarring, leaving downtowns and families scarred by big interests. What went on in New London when families had to leave and what remains is sad, very, very sad. Sometimes progress is a four letter word.

One of my greatest joys was seeing the Crystal Mall completed. It gave me a place to stroller my newborn when it was cold outside. I'd walk the mall like it was a town center, feed my baby a bottle and then head home for naps for both of us. Now, that baby, almost 30, and I and her baby, do the same. Our surroundings may change but we really don't. We do the same exact thing only generations later. Enough said.

A YouTube worthy moment you will never get to see

0

0

 

You know those trending segments on the news, the ones where the anchors share computer videos that go viral, like grooms splitting their pants, little kids singing in the car and dogs doing backflips over Frisbees? I was witness to one of those moments recently. Unfortunately all cameras were focused slightly to the left of the mishap or you'd be claiming you saw it too, on YouTube.

Our six month old granddaughter was baptized at the beautiful First Congregational Church in Deep River. It is the quintessential New England small town church, rimming a green which has horseshoe pits for summer evening leagues, and just down the street from the local baseball field. I'm not a member of that church but I've cried at many a wedding, and wept at funerals from those pews. I spoke from the pulpit once, in honor of great man.

That church, and its minister, the Rev. Timothy Haut, is as much a part of our family as any man or woman of God can be who weds your children, baptizes their babies and eulogizes your family and friends. The tableau standing before the gathering of the faithful was perfect. Pastor Haut, (in his long white robe), the mom, (my oldest daughter), the godmother, (my youngest daughter), the godfather, (a family friend), and little Sydney (our granddaughter), resting on the arm and shoulder of her dad, (our son-in-law).

Haut spoke, we used our phones for pictures, the baby was smiling and happy and not a fret was heard. Even when the water was dripped on her forehead, Sydney smiled. The congregation and guests emitted an "awe" in celebration of the wonderful moment.

The minister, as he often does during baptisms, took the baby gently in his arms and walked down the aisle to present her to the faithful - this was after she had removed his lapel microphone, twice, and proceeded to use it as a teething toy. Baby sounds filled the church. The congregation laughed, the minister chuckled. It was sweet but not quite YouTube worthy.

Once back to the altar he handed the baby to her mother, who replaced the mike with a favorite teething-toy, a soft giraffe made for tender gums. Sydney dropped the toy. My daughter looked to her sister to retrieve the little giraffe from the floor.

My youngest daughter, brilliant, beautiful and well over six feet tall in her new four inch high-heeled beige patient leather peep-toe platforms, is a prime example of someone who can trip over a piece of paper and spill the contents of an empty glass.

As she attempted to pivot and bend to reach the toy she forgot about the steep step behind the rail, it caught the edge of her high heel and in a Lucy and Ethel moment of flailing arms and legs, she toppled to the floor, out of sight, behind the velvet draped altar rail. The minister glanced her way, then back to the baby and continued his sermon without a moment's pause. A collective gasp rose above the crowd.

"Did she faint?" the old lady behind me asked.

Every kid-klutzy moment, of which I was aware, came to mind. I put my hand to my face as if clutching my jaw would stop my laughter.

My daughter's arm rose from behind the altar rail, then her head, and in a loud whisper she waved the giraffe and said, "I'm all right." The church bubbled with laughter.

Behind us, the aunts, uncles and especially the cousins were hunched over trying to contain themselves. Having observed my daughter's antics over the years it came as no surprise that if someone were to take a header during a church ritual, of which she was a part, it would be my youngest.

Nope you won't be replaying that little scene on YouTube, which I am sure would have gone viral but thank God, I said later, she wasn't holding the baby. Thank God indeed. Enough said.

 

One last yard sale and $42 in an old purse

 

Yard sale, two four-letter words spelled 'never-again.'

A couple of months ago our family ventured into the upper wastelands of our abode to organize, dispose of and prepare for sale, the detritus of our attic. It became an exercise in the futility of setting a price on that which is deemed worthless to one, and a prize at a quarter, to someone else. It also became an act of historic proportions to get my kids to go through the substance of their youth. I didn't threaten to fill a dumpster with what was left from their childhoods, I just said I'd keep all the money. They showed up.

Thirty years ago, after my last yard sale, I swore I'd never again put forth so much effort for so little monetary return. But the kids wanted to make a few bucks and I wanted out from under all our stuff.
After the cleaning and sneezing, ticketing and sorting, after calling the neighbors to warn of (I hoped) lots of traffic, after borrowing tables, making signs, hanging signs, posting on Craig's list and telling every single friend and family member not to come (I was selling some of their old gifts) we were ready for our own personal black Friday on Saturday.

We hauled our stuff to the end of our 1,000-foot driveway in the woods at 6 a.m., set up by 7 a.m., and hoped for the best. My oldest daughter was unable to be there because of a previous commitment, so we had to track her sales along with ours.

The first to show up - a swarm of mosquitoes. I made a mad dash back to the house for repellent. And then the dealers came. I used to sell antiques and imagined some of my items showing up on Antiques Roadshow, but I figured if a stranger made a financial windfall because I was uninformed, good for them.

The first customer was a classic I had been warned about by friends. For her $5 item she handed over a $100 dollar bill. Shop early with big bills and yard-salers usually let the items go for free, so as not to deplete their shoebox full of change. I was prepared. The only items I planned on giving away free would be the leftovers donated the following Monday.

During the course of the day folks came and went (even connected with some old antique-buddies) and negotiations for lower prices continued. One middle-aged father showed up with his young daughter, she was about 10. The little girl shopped and the father sat down and played one of the two guitars we had for sale. It was nice. He was friendly. They left with a tiny purple stapler and a small, well-used purse which had belonged to the daughter who was unable to help that day.

Within minutes the father and daughter returned, the little girl had found $42 in my daughter's purse. We were astounded, not only by the find, but because they actually returned with the money. I gave the little girl a $10 reward and after they left I felt guilty that I didn't let her keep the entire amount. I quickly checked the rest of the purses and found a nice pair of earrings. The balance of the found-money went toward our dinner of pizzas and salad that night.

Regarding the effort put forth, my kids did okay. As for me, I used my windfall to buy a new laptop, on which I am typing these very words. But I still wish I had given the little girl all the money she had found. Enough said.

They ran, we sat in the shade (original title)

They ran a race, we sat in the shade

My husband and I traveled the Rt 8 northwest-passage, to the seven mile long Litchfield Hills Road Race. We weren’t running, but we were going to to sit in the shade, eat cheese burgers, fries, and watch 2000 runners dash around town in 85 degree heat. Our youngest and her husband were participants.

Litchfield is a, “you-can’t-get-there-from-here,” town, an enclave of the rich, famous and influential, with a welcoming atmosphere somewhere between Meryl Streep and Agway.

The town center is quaint. We joined the throngs on the beautiful green and pitched ourselves right at the start line. The cannon went off, the race started, we suffered in the shade while enjoying the beautiful afternoon. While the race progressed, the most physically taxing thing this inferior did was stand in the sun for fifteen minutes while anticipating when my daughter and son-in-law would cross the finish line. I cheered and snapped pictures as they finished the race. It was hot, I was sunburned and exhausted. Watching other people deplete their energy by maxing out their physical prowess makes me feel like a failure; I napped in the car on the way home.

That afternoon reminded me of when I lived in an apartment on the Post Road near the starting line of the East Lyme marathon in the early 80’s. All our friends and family gathered at our tiny apartment prior to the start of the race. They had to arrive early in the morning because the roads were closed. We’d stand on the lawn and cheer the start. Then we’d have a huge brunch and bulk up on bacon, sausage, home-fries and eggs. Add to that, half the sweets from Flanders Bakery and you can imagine how difficult it was to waddle over to the finish line at East Lyme High School as the runners came in.

We made a celebration of the event for several years until we moved.

The first time I made it over to the high school to watch the runners finish I was inspired, not to run of course, that idea is laughable, but to commit to something which stretches my physical boundaries. (More than thirty years later I’m still looking for that commitment.)

The top runners with the best times were elite athletes to be respected because of what they put their bodies and minds through on a daily basis, as dedication to sport. But it was the other runners, the ones with actual running times which did not matter as much as just finishing the race did, which I was in awe of. The pudgier runners, older runners, weekend runners who looked like they rode a desk all week long, those were the ones I cheered, clapped and cried for.  How do runners do it, how do they find the strength and tenacity to run so far and not give up? I would have dropped out or dropped dead. I can drive 26 miles, (not on a bike but in a car), as long I take a snack and stop to stretch my legs at the mall.

The Litchfield Hills Road race isn’t as long as East Lyme used to be. It isn’t as huge as the New York Marathon or as famous as Boston’s, but considering the number of runners from around the world, and the up and down aspects of the course, plus the heat, it might as well have been. My daughter and son-law-finished the race; their times were respectable. Will they run again next year? They say yes. Will I watch, eat burgers and take pictures, absolutely. But next year I’ll wear a hat. Standing in the sun for a quarter of an hour is tough, but I did it. Enough said.

            Carolynn’s latest exercise plan is to watch TV sitting up instead of lying down.

Quiche or gas, what makes you real (original title)

What makes you real ?
 

On the way to Wal-Mart last Sunday, the gas-light came on in my car so I pulled into the local gas station where the price of 87-octane is only slightly lower than the cost of a pint of AB - negative.

Even though I was driving, my husband offered to pump.

Years ago I remember the book, “Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche” and its feminist counterpart, “Real Women Don’t Pump Gas. I’ve never been one of those women who go all female at a gas station; it’s my car, I can fill the tank. But if my husband offers to pump, in the rain, or snow or gloom of night, I let him feel needed. Even though the weather was beautiful that day I figured I’m driving, he can pump if he wants to.

As we pulled up to one of the wallet-drainers I realized that all the other pumps were occupied by motorcycles with drivers filling tanks the size of my purse. It wasn’t a mean looking cadre of Marlon Brando type wild ones; they looked like a bunch of young guys out for some wind in their hair on a beautiful spring afternoon.

Before my husband opened his door I said “I’ll pump,” and I jumped out.

As I was standing there draining my bank account, the engines on the fancy two wheelers revved and the pack of young men pulled away. When I got back in the car I figured I should explain to my husband why, at that moment, pumping my own gas was so important.

I didn’t want a group of strangers see my husband pump gas for me. I did not want to be considered by anyone, even people I would never see again, as one of those women who won’t ‘fill-er-up’ on my own. For folks who need assistance, that’s one thing, but as long as I’m capable, I’ll do it, especially if someone else is watching. This was of course assuming someone actually noticed the gray haired matron hopping out of her car so energetically, to expertly operate the gas pump.

My husband and I laughed about my need to prove independence amidst a group of men young enough to be my grandsons. That’s when I thought about a few women I know who, though physically capable, refuse to pump gas. Their marriages ended in divorce. I wondered if there was some sort of correlation between female dependence, a couple’s perception of self-reliance, and how long a marriage lasts.

I didn’t marry until I was past thirty, so even though I’ve been married more than half my life, I’m used to not being helpless. My husband cooks, because he likes to and I cook when I have to. I don’t carry in all the groceries but I am the one who puts them away. I don’t always clean the snow off my car but when I do I clean off my husband’s pick-up too. I don’t mow the lawn, I weed, I don’t plow, I vacuum. I know how to check the oil in my car and fill the window washer reservoir with fluid. I’ve never had to, but I can change a tire, because I can read (I know where the manual is), and if the battery dies I know how to dial AAA.  So, as long as I’m wearing my glasses and have a cell phone, regarding my vehicle, I’m pretty self-sufficient.

I’m a real woman who pumps gas and after thirty-four years of marriage, I’ve never seen my husband eat quiche. What’s that make him? Enough said.